Telephone Terrorist

When Rosoff was finally released that year, his plans of becoming a painter, a mechanic, an accountant disintegrated. He was estranged from Whisler, and the courts, worried about his temper, restricted access to his son. His parents, big names in Cleveland's Jewish community, broke off communication. Rosoff spent his nights on other people's couches.

It was at this time that he was introduced to phone chat lines. Much like internet chat rooms, they're places where people from across the globe can mingle. They tend to attract the lonely, the bored, those who struggle to blend into the face-to-face world. Here, you can be anyone, adopting whatever persona suits you. Rosoff became "Michael Knight." And he would soon become the most feared man on the phone line.

In the 1990s, chat lines began advertising their services in the back pages of periodicals like TV Guide and Scene. "Lonely?" the ads would ask. "Call this number and chat for free!" Sometimes services were local. Others required a long-distance call.

With names like Cleveland Raven, Seattle Donut, and Boston Roach, they were the electronic version of singles parties — only callers didn't have to worry about pimply faces or thunder thighs. On the phone, everyone could be Keira Knightley or Brad Pitt.

Users felt a sense of acceptance, community — and sometimes addiction. It wasn't uncommon for some to run up $50,000 long-distance bills in the course of a year.

When a new person called, he was greeted by an electronic "concierge," who thanked the caller for having the good sense to choose that particular service. More users than other chat lines! The best quality reception! But the welcome message would end with a rather ominous caveat: Callers weren't prescreened, it warned, so there were bound to be some "bad people" on the line. If the newbie felt nervous about this, he should hang up now.

Many dismissed this warning.

Callers were then shuttled to different "rooms" — or different lines — where people talked about whatever came to mind, usually politics, sports, or Hollywood. But as internet chat rooms have shown us, anonymity tends to make the meek bold, and the lines would often devolve into discussions of penis size or the inferiority of minorities. The men would often try — mostly unsuccessfully — to convince the women to have phone sex with them.

If the caller didn't like the conversation in one room, he could ask the concierge to move him to another one. But for the hard-core users, the phone lines often became life itself.

Callers had "phone girlfriends" and "phone boyfriends" — people they'd never met in person. There were "phone weddings," complete with "phone bridesmaids" and "phone justices of the peace." If a couple got into a fight, one partner would angrily declare that he or she "wanted a phone divorce."

But mostly the lines served as a fiber-optic stage, allowing people to conjure new identities and life stories. "You got to be the person you couldn't normally be," explains "Beth," a former caller.

Most of the men, like "Black Jordan" (Bryan Barnett), liked to bill themselves as tough Mafioso types, though in real life Barnett was a skinny, pimply guy from Chicago who lived with his mom. On the phone, however, he was someone to be feared.

"Every guy basically out there had to show off," explains "Mary," another longtime caller. To flex their electronic biceps, they would try to out-trash-talk each other or outdo each other with pranks.

Barnett's greatest talent was "social engineering" — but not in the conventional meaning of the term. His version involved conning people into revealing personal information like passwords and phone numbers. The young entrepreneur was a deft manipulator. With little effort, he could make himself sound like a bank manager or a southern gentleman.

Barnett would start up a friendly chat with his intended victim. He'd ask where the person was from, then inevitably exclaim, "Oh, I'm from that city too. Where do you live?" Within minutes, he'd have the street address. Then he'd ask for a phone number, so they could "meet up." The people who populated the lines, hungry for friends and social interaction, gave out information freely.

Barnett also exploited shifting alliances. When chatters fought, he'd convince the aggrieved to hand over personal info on their enemies. Then he'd store the information, retrieving it only when he felt the need for vengeance.

His victims could be anyone: Someone who'd talked shit about him. Someone who'd stolen his "phone girlfriend." Many didn't even know why they'd been targeted. But the next thing they knew, a delivery guy would be at their door with three pizzas they'd never ordered.

Over time, the pranks would become more complex. Barnett figured out how to have people's phones turned off, their power and water shut down. And like a proud teacher, he felt the need to pass along his expertise. Stuart Rosoff was a willing student.